


you are my lucky star

by theparadigmshifts



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, Singin' in the Rain (1952)
Genre: Actor Eddie, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Childhood Friends, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Golden Age Hollywood, M/M, Songwriting, Tenderness, and the beautiful rising singer/actress was the beard, but if the film star and piano player were in love, gazing across rooms, me: i'm gonna give these 1920s gays everything they deserve, musician richie, stuntman eddie, this whole thing is just like. feral yearning, yes this is a singin in the rain au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23551417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadigmshifts/pseuds/theparadigmshifts
Summary: It's 1927, the studios are navigating the change from silent films to talking pictures, and film star Eddie Kaspbrak and his best friend, composer Richie Tozier, are navigating something else, too.--Or: the Singin' in the Rain AU
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 101
Kudos: 589





	you are my lucky star

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to em for messaging me about this concept in the first place, and for beta reading, and for everything in between!!

The screams are making his ears ring, the flashing lights are leaving afterimages that he’s gonna feel behind his eyes for hours, and Eddie’s about to sweat right out of his suit. He’s always hated this part the most. When he’d said _of course I’ll sign on to do your stunts, Monumental_ , he hadn’t imagined mugging for the cameras, walking the red carpet. Myra’s grip on his arm is so tight that he feels like he’s gonna find bruise marks later, underneath his jacket. 

_The stars of tonight’s picture_ , he hears a voice say over a microphone, somewhere, _those onscreen lovers, Edward Kaspbrak and Myra Martin!_

The crowd shrieks. One of the reporters jostles him before the officers can push him out of the way. Eddie feels like his blood is humming under his skin, in his throat and ears. He flashes another pasted-on smile, but he’s sure it looks as thin and breakable as glass.

They push him toward the interviewer, who’s starting to talk, and Eddie’s eyes roam the edges of the crowd as quick as they can, passing over the other stars on the carpet, until they snag on exactly who he’s looking for. 

Richie is on this side of the velvet ropes, but just barely. It’s always strange to see him dressed up like this, lanky limbs wrapped all in black. He’s not wearing a hat, but his overcoat’s still on. His bowtie’s crooked. When he catches Eddie’s eye his whole face lights up with a huge, toothy smile, and Eddie feels his own smile turn genuine. 

Richie nods his head like _get on with it, then!_ and winks, so quick that Eddie knows no one else has seen it. He huffs a shaky laugh and feels himself steady, the tension melting right down his spine. It’s always like this with Richie. It has been for as long as he can remember. 

The reporter is asking him to tell the story of his career. “Well,” he starts. “Any story of mine has to start with my lifelong friend, Richard Tozier. Richie?” 

The spot swivels to where Richie’s standing, and Eddie holds his gaze as he waves to the crowd. Richie’s eyes flick back to Eddie’s. His eyebrows dart up, once. _You gonna bullshit ‘em all, Eds?_ He hears in his head, in Richie’s voice. 

_Everyone but you, Rich_ , he thinks. He smiles wickedly. “It was a lot of hard work, Dora, and a little luck,” he says. “But we always knew we had to take the high road.” 

* * *

“We’re never hitching a ride with a stranger again, Richie,” Eddie is sniping at him. The rain has made a mess of his perfect hair and his trousers are absolutely ruined, sunk with mud up to the knee. Richie wipes his glasses off with his fingers to find Eddie’s big, dark eyes flashing absolute murder at him. He’s perfect. Richie can’t hold his laugh in. 

“It all shook out fine, Edster,” Richie says, shrugging off his raincoat and holding it up over his head like an umbrella. He cocks his head at Eddie, raises his eyebrows. 

“I’m not done yelling at you!” Eddie says. “We could have been killed! I cannot believe you told me you booked us this gig when your big plan was just to steal someone else’s slot!” 

“It was so close to working,” Richie grins. “I could almost taste it.” 

“Taste the bottom of my fucking shoe, Richie,” Eddie says.

“You look like a little drowned rat,” says Richie, giggling. 

Eddie huffs out, furious, rolls his eyes, and comes to stand under the coat, the top of his head brushing Richie’s ear. He stares out at the road. Richie stares at him. He can feel the heat radiating from him this close, stepping forward that half inch left between them so their bodies can touch. Richie knows it’s a bad excuse. That doesn’t mean he won’t take it. 

“You told me California was gonna be sunny,” Eddie says, folding his arms over his chest. Richie can feel the echo of his voice in his own chest. 

“Yeah, it will be,” Richie says. “One of these days. Cross my heart.” 

They’ve been on the road for three years now, looking for their big break. Eddie’s put every ounce of his furious, single-minded energy into it, practicing the same dance move in their shared motel room until he’s bruised all over, then turning to Richie, chest heaving, and saying, _now you try it_.

Richie’d do whatever Eddie asked him to. Sure, he wants to make a splash in Hollywood, entertain a room of folks, whatever. But mostly, he’d just wanted to get Eddie away from his hag of a mother. _Run away with me, Eddie, baby. We can make it on Vaudeville_ , he’d said, over and over until it hadn’t been a joke anymore. _Okay. Okay. But_ _we’re not going to perform on fucking_ Vaudeville _, Rich,_ Eddie had hissed. _That’s so embarrassing_. 

* * *

They perform on fucking Vaudeville. And in a dozen backroom bars, smoke heavy in the air, Richie at the piano and Eddie playing the fiddle, crooning into the mic on Richie’s luckiest days. They’re all lucky, he thinks. He gets to watch Eddie all night, safe behind the barrier of the piano, and no one suspects a thing about it, because they’re all watching him, too. 

Richie’s not sure how they get the gig at Monumental. Luck. Fate. A little of both. But they’re playing together when they watch the stuntman go down, hard, watch the director take in a deep breath and pinch the bridge of his nose in agony. 

“Well, that’s the day, then,” he says, resigned. “We don’t have time for them to send someone else over.” He’s not much older than they are, Richie realizes. This picture is his first break, too. 

Richie glances up at Eddie and sees something passing over his face that Richie knows better than anyone. That set of his jaw. That almost devilish gleam in his sweet eyes. 

“It’s not so different from dancing, is it, Richie?” he breathes. “I think - I think I could do that.” 

“Yeah, Eddie, I think you could,” Richie says. “I think you could do anything.”

He meets Richie’s eyes and Richie sees a flash of panic in them. 

“Come on, I’ll walk you over,” Richie says. “I’ll be your very supportive shadow. Your good luck charm.” 

“Like you’ve ever been lucky,” Eddie scoffs. 

_I’ve been lucky this whole time_ , Richie thinks. He watches Eddie put his violin in its case, walk up to the director. “Mr. Uris,” he says. “I can do it.” 

The director turns. “Are you sure?” he asks, not unkindly. “You’re the musician, aren’t you?” 

“That’s what you think,” Richie calls. 

Mr. Uris looks Eddie over. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s give it a shot.” 

He looks _good_ as a cowboy, Richie thinks, fake handlebar mustache and everything. Good in a way that makes Richie’s stomach dip like he’s on a bus that’s just hit a particularly nasty pothole. He does it exactly right, flipping back over the bar, crashing into the glasses. Richie watches everyone else in the room catch their breath when he does it and feels that same swoop of pride he’s always felt when Eddie gets up in front of people and shows them all how brave he is, how beautiful. 

Mr. Uris pumps Eddie’s hand, after, and Eddie looks back at Richie, eyes shining, smiling bigger than Richie’s seen him smile in a while. _I got it, Rich!_ He mouths. Richie gives him a thumbs up back and feels something click into place. _Of course this is how it had to happen_ , Richie thinks. He’s not fooling himself. He knows exactly what the lurch in his stomach means, the affection that bursts open like confetti in his chest when he sees Eddie smile. He’s been in love with Eddie for as long as he can remember. He’s always been grateful that he’s the one to calm him down, to make him laugh when no one else on earth can, to watch him from across the piano. He’s going to keep doing it for as long as he can manage.

* * *

Eddie finds Richie backstage after the premiere, lets him pull him into a tight hug. 

“Nice swashbuckling, Spaghetti Man!” he crows. 

Eddie pulls back with a scoff. “Nice monkey suit, Rich,” he says, tugging on his sleeves. He still doesn’t wear cufflinks. 

“You calling me a monkey?” Richie asks. 

“Maybe,” Eddie says. Richie makes soft hooting noises, scratching under his armpit. Eddie rolls his eyes. He’s a ham; you’d think he’d be the actor. “You need a new one.” 

“But you bought me this one,” Richie says petulantly. 

“And I can buy you another,” Eddie shoots back. He refuses to let his smile through. “It’s too tight on your shoulders, anyway.” He can hear the crowd clapping politely as Stan finishes up his speech, but it’s a distant noise. He can’t help noticing the way the suit stretches across Richie’s broad shoulders, the way he’s filled out since they first came to California ten years ago. He can’t - 

“Eddie bear!” Myra’s nasal whine slices right through his thoughts. He feels his jaw tense, gritting his teeth. Sometimes he wonders if he made a deal with the devil somewhere along the way. He found Stan; he got to keep Richie; maybe the price to pay for both of these things was being saddled with Myra as a co-star. 

“There you are, I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you,” she says. She darts a dark look at Richie. “Can I steal my fiancé away for a few minutes?” 

Eddie sees a muscle jump in Richie’s strong jaw, too. “Myra,” he says, voice as cold and as cutting as he can make it. “I’m not your fiancé. We aren’t together. We will _never_ be together.” 

“That’s not what the papers say,” she says, winking in a way that Eddie thinks is supposed to be charming. He’s about a second from losing it. 

“Give it a rest, Myra,” Richie says. 

She turns on him. “What do you know, piano player? Are you anybody?” 

Eddie sees red. “He’s Richie Tozier,” he spits. “He’s got more talent in his little finger than most people have in their whole body.” 

Mike and Ben come swooping in for damage control at this point. Ben steers Myra away to her car with all the kindness Eddie cannot muster. 

“I don’t want to play peacemaker again,” says Mike. “But -” 

Eddie sighs. “Play nice, I know, Mike,” he says. 

“I get it,” Mike says. “She’s a pain. But she’s one of the studio’s biggest assets, so -” 

“So she can be as big a pain in _our_ assets as she wants,” Richie says. “Got it.” 

Mike laughs, despite himself. Stan appears to pull Mike out the door, too, pointing at Richie and Eddie as he goes.

“Get to the party, boys,” he says. “I don’t trust you alone together.” 

“That’s what they say about me and Eddie’s mother,” Richie says. Everyone groans. 

“Party,” Stan says again. “Chop chop.” 

“You’re not our director now, we’re off the clock!” Eddie says. 

“It’s a perpetual burden,” says Stan, and then he’s gone. 

Richie’s chuckles subside, but the warmth in his eyes is still there when he looks down at Eddie. “You alright, shortstack?” he asks. 

“Remind me why I got myself into all this again?” Eddie asks back. 

“Swimming pools? Hollywood parties?” 

Eddie shakes his head, biting his lip. 

“The price of fame, darling,” Richie says grandly. “You’ve got the glory. You’ve gotta take the little heartaches that go with it.” He taps him over his breast pocket before falling to his knees, hands clasped. It’s so fast and he’s so long-limbed that it looks like an accident, but that’s always been Richie’s biggest trick. Eddie remembers watching him in their early days, pinwheeling his arms and legs in nothing but a sweat-soaked undershirt and trousers. When he dances, Richie’s all chaos to Eddie’s precision, but he knows exactly how to hold himself back. 

“Get up, Richie,” Eddie laughs. Richie continues like he hasn’t heard him. 

“I got no fame. I got no glory. I got no big mansion. But I’ve got -” he clutches at Eddie’s hips, staring up at him, and the soundtrack in the back of Eddie’s head skips a beat before the music swells. “What have I got?” he asks. 

Eddie’s ready to tease him. He’s got a barb on the tip of his tongue. But that’s not what comes out. 

“You’ve got me,” he says, hauling Richie to his feet. 

Richie looks a little gobsmacked. “Yeah?” he asks. “You’re here to bring me good fortune, oh star of the silver screen? Or am I still your lucky charm?” 

“Still not convinced that was you,” Eddie says. “But I think I’ll keep you around, just in case.” 

“Always covering your bases, Edster,” Richie says. He lets a hand rest on the small of Eddie’s back when they walk out of the theater, just for a second when he opens the door. Neither of them say anything about it. 

* * *

What happens next, as usual, is Richie’s fault. Not the fans mobbing Eddie or tearing his suit. But when he shouts, “Rich, call me a cab!” Richie’s eyes light up, and cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “okay, you’re a cab!” before dissolving into laughter. Eddie hates him. He really hates him. 

Instead, Eddie pulls his best stunt work yet and lands himself in the passenger seat of a car driving the other direction, which is unfortunately occupied by a redheaded woman who screams the second he lands. 

“Where the hell did you come from?” she yells, swatting at him with her right hand. 

“Geez, lady, calm the fuck down!” Eddie yells back. 

“Calm the - you just jumped into my car!” she says. “I am pretty sure that’s illegal!” 

“Can we just -” Eddie sighs, taking in his ruined suit. He pinches the bridge of his nose in a habit he’s picked up from Stan. “I’m sorry, would you be able to take me to Sunset and Camden?” 

“Oh, you’re asking me for a _favor_ , now?” the woman says, eyebrows raised. “I’m late for work, so you’d better get out of my car at the next light.” 

“I can’t, someone’s gonna recognize me,” Eddie says, panic rising in his chest. Fuck Richie. Fuck him for laughing, and fuck him for leaving him behind. Eddie hopes he’s worried. 

“Oh, are you some kind of Hollywood bigshot?” the woman says. She rolls her eyes. “I have had enough of those to last me a lifetime, alright? If I hear another _hey, beautiful, you know I can get you in the pictures_ , I’m going to scream.” 

“I’m -” Eddie pauses. “No, I’m nobody.” 

“Nobody, huh?” the redhead looks at him sideways. “That’s good, because movies are a lot of dumb show anyway. I wouldn’t call it _acting_.” 

“Oh, no, of course not,” Eddie says, bitterly. 

“The stage is where the real talent is.” 

“Oh, so you’re a stage actress, huh?” Eddie asks. 

“Yeah, I am,” she says, bristling. Eddie starts gearing up for another fight, but realizes that they’re stopped at the light. 

“Listen, I’m not getting out of the car, but I’ll pay you -” 

“I don’t need your money,” the woman snaps. 

“Well _sorry_ for trying to compensate you for the trouble,” Eddie says. “Sue me.” 

“Of course you think money fixes everything,” she says. 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Eddie says. 

“I’m not sure I want to,” the woman returns. “Here we go. Sunset and Camden.” 

Eddie blinks. “Oh,” he says. “Well. Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it,” she says. “And don’t try to pay me. It’s actually been kind of fun arguing with you. See ya, bigshot.” 

And then she’s gone before he can say another word. When she speeds off, it tears the remaining panel off his suit, and he sighs heavily before making his way inside to change. 

* * *

Richie worries he’s being biased when he thinks that the party’s boring without Eddie. The champagne’s flowing, everyone’s dancing, and Mike and Stan are talking shop about their next movie. But when Eddie finally shows up, wearing a new suit, they announce the future of filmmaking by way of talking pictures, and a redhead jumps out of a cake, tries to pie Eddie in the face, and ends up hitting Myra instead. 

It’s the most fun Richie’s had all year. 

“It’s always nice to see you making new friends without me, Eddie,” Richie says. 

“Will you shut up?” says Eddie. 

It’s five in the morning, and they’re out in the backyard, pant legs cuffed, feet in the swimming pool. Richie’s bowtie is long gone, and they’ve both rolled up their shirtsleeves, Richie reaching out to help Eddie with his when Eddie’s fingers falter. He wants to kiss him, sometimes, when he gets this close, feels the want crawling its way up his throat like he’s gonna be sick. He fixes his eyes on Eddie’s big doe eyes instead, refuses to let them track to his lips. He’s gotten pretty good at it, if he does say so himself. He’s had a lot of practice. 

“It’s been a good night,” he says, laughing softly. “Hasn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, kicking his foot through the water. He smiles the kind of private smile that only Richie gets to see, the one behind the mask he has to put on for everybody else. 

“I’m sorry I left ya stranded,” Richie says, leaning back on his elbows. 

“No you’re not,” Eddie snorts. 

“Well,” Richie says. “No. But that’s just because I know you can take care of yourself.” 

“Damn right I can,” Eddie says. He pauses. “Hey, Rich? Am I good at my job?” 

Richie snorts. “What are you talking about?”

“No jokes,” Eddie says, looking up at him. 

“Yeah, Eddie, of course you are,” Richie says. “When you get going up there no one can take their eyes off of you.” He feels like he’s already said too much. He’s not drunk anymore, but he’s still worried about running his big mouth. _When are you gonna bring a girl home and make me clear outta here, Rich?_ Eddie had asked him, years and years ago. _Never_ , Richie had said, quiet as a mouse. _I think you’re safe._ He’d been terrified to say it, terrified that Eddie would never feel safe around him again. But he’d just seen surprise flicker over Eddie’s face, then understanding. _Oh, okay_ , he’d said. And they’d never talked about it again. 

_He must know_ , he thinks. He’d gotten trashed out of his mind at a party just like this one, Eddie’s first headliner. _What if he leaves me behind, now?_ He’d thought, and then thought it through a couple bottles of champagne. _You know what I am, don’t you, Edster?_ He remembers asking. _Yeah_ , Eddie had said, with that hard set of his mouth. _You’re my best friend, Rich. Always have been. Always will be_. He’d left his own party to take Richie home to his apartment, put him into bed. _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , Richie had thought, blearily. _I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I think you’re it for me_. He’d opened his mouth to say it and he’d hurled instead. 

“I hope so,” Eddie says. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Richie asks. “I’m the one Myra was sniping at tonight.”

“No, it was something the redhead said,” Eddie says. “She told me what I did wasn’t acting.” 

“She didn’t even know who you were!” Richie says. “She looked more shocked than you did when she jumped outta that cake! If she’d seen your pictures she’d’ve known the real deal. Your job’s safe.” Richie pauses, looking out over the water. “Shit. Safer than mine is.” 

“What are you talking about, Rich?” 

“Talking pictures,” he says, putting on a Voice. 

Eddie scoffs. “What, you really think that’s gonna take off?” 

“Oh, it’s gonna take off, alright,” Richie says. “Faster than the horseless carriage. And then no one’s gonna need a piano player for mood music anymore.” 

“You’re a man of many talents, Rich,” Eddie says, bumping him with his shoulder. _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , Richie thinks. His chest swells dangerously with affection. So he bumps him back, harder, until they’re scrabbling like kids at the edge of the pool. 

“Oh no, Eddie!” he shouts, kicking water at him. “Eddie, how could you?” 

“How could I _what_ , dipshit?” 

Richie goes boneless and lets himself fall into the pool with a splash. 

“Richie!” Eddie shrieks, sounding just like he did at nineteen. “I cannot ruin two suits in one night!” 

“You’re a superstar, Eddie, baby!” Richie crows. He pushes his glasses to the top of his head so that Eddie’s just an orange-lit blur under the lights. “Buy a new one! Buy me a new one, too!” 

Eddie kicks in his direction. Richie catches his foot, presses his thumb hard to the arch of it. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Eddie says, pulling himself back. 

Richie swims closer, innocently offering his hand. “Help me out, Eddie?” He says, batting his eyelashes. 

“Oh, like I’m gonna fall for that, Rich,” he says, plucking the glasses off Richie’s head. He dries them carefully on his shirt, one lens at a time, slotting them back onto Richie’s face. Seeing him clearly, all at once, nearly does Richie in: the bemused lift of his dark eyebrows, the slicked-back swoop of his dark hair, the short smudge of his eyelashes, the thin hollow of his cheek. He undoes his bowtie with quick, tidy tugs, coiling it up and placing it at the edge of the pool. Richie raises his own eyebrows questioningly. 

“It was expensive,” he says. And then he stands up, grins so big that Richie feels the _ba-dum ba-dum_ of his heart in his throat, and cannonballs into the pool on his own terms. 

* * *

Richie, as it turns out, was right, even if Eddie refuses to tell him that. They shut the studio down for two weeks, which Eddie spends avoiding parties to avoid Myra, having dinner with Richie instead. The two of them try to figure out what happened to the redhead, on Richie’s urging, but all they can piece together is that her name is Beverly Marsh, and that Myra got her fired. 

“That’s reason enough to track her down,” Richie says. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had a crush on her,” Eddie says, without thinking. It’s only when Richie’s quiet that he looks up to see panic on his face.

 _Shit_ , Eddie thinks. He’s known Richie was built different for a while, now, but it hadn’t changed anything for him. He’d expected it to bother him, to have to work through his own discomfort. But there hadn’t been anything to work through. He loved Richie exactly the same as always. He would never put one of those words to him that he hears other people use sometimes. 

But the shock fades, and Richie’s big, stretchy smile returns, and Eddie breathes out a sigh of relief. “I’ll leave that to you, Spaghetti Man,” he quips. 

“Ugh, no,” Eddie says, before he even knows why he’s said it. “You staying for dinner?” 

“Spaghetti talk making you hungry?” Richie asks.

“Just kidding,” Eddie says. “You’re uninvited.” 

“Sorry, Edster,” Richie says, flashing his teeth. “You can’t get rid of me, I’m like a vampire. Or a very friendly ghost.” 

“You sure are pale enough,” Eddie says. _I’d never want to_ , he thinks. 

* * *

Richie doesn’t get fired - he gets _promoted_ to _musical director_. He’s actually getting paid to write songs, now. He has to pinch himself. And when he tells Eddie the news, Eddie pulls him into a rib-crushing hug, so that’s not so bad either, huh? 

Richie comes skidding onto the soundstage a few weeks after production starts back up in the studio again, almost tripping on two or three of the cables that snake their way across the floor, catching himself in half a wobbly pirouette. _Still got it_ , he thinks, grinning. 

“Eds! Eddie!” he shouts, every head on the set swiveling his direction. 

“What, Richie!” Eddie shouts back. He’s completely nonplussed, which Richie guesses is fair. Last week he’d done an extended bit with a mannequin just to bring his dimples out, to steal an uninterrupted look at the long line of his neck when he tipped his head back and closed his eyes to laugh. 

“I found her!” he shouts. “I found the cake girl!”

When the elusive Beverly Marsh sees Richie tugging Eddie onto the lot, she pales, eyes darting toward the exit. 

“Beverly!” Richie booms. “We’ve been lookin’ in every cake in town!” 

“If you’re here to get me fired from this gig, too,” she hisses at Eddie, “I’ll just pack my things and go.” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Richie says. “Cool your heels, filly.” 

“Are you calling me a horse?” Beverly asks, eyebrows raised. 

“No, I’m sorry,” Eddie says, hands lifted in surrender. “I came here to apologize.” 

“You _what?_ ” Beverly asks. 

“It’s true,” Richie says. “We heard you got canned. We’d rather shake your hand for doing what you did.” 

“No kidding?” Beverly asks. 

“No kidding,” Eddie says. “Myra’s my personal thorn in my side. The woman drives me nuts.” 

Bev cracks a smile. 

“Richie Tozier, at your service,” he says. “And I know you’ve met the other half of this dynamic duo, Eddie Kaspbrak.” 

“Can _I_ call you Eddie?” she asks, eyebrows raised. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Yeah, that’s alright.” 

“You can call me Bev, then.” 

“I caught the end of your number,” Richie says. “You’re really talented, you know that?” 

“Oh,” says Bev. “Well, thank you.”

The fight’s gone out of her. Her arms are uncrossed, her guard down. She’s objectively beautiful, warm and bright like a candle. He looks over at Eddie, who’s looking at her, too, in a way that Richie can’t parse. Myra’s a terror, so Richie had never had to worry about her taking Eddie from him. But one of these days, Eddie’s gonna settle down with some beautiful young starlet, isn’t he? One of these days, someone else is going to turn his head, and then the spotlight of his attention won’t be on Richie anymore, no matter how hard he mugs for him. 

“You know, Stan’s still looking for someone to play Zelda’s kid sister. Isn’t he, Rich?” he asks, turning to look at him. 

“That’s right!” Richie says, pulling himself back. “You’re not just a pretty face, huh, Edster?”

Bev laughs. “You let him talk to you like that?”

“I don’t have a choice,” Eddie says. Richie pinches his cheek. Eddie sighs. 

“Come on, then,” Eddie says, motioning to Bev. “Let’s go talk to Stan.” 

“You’re serious,” Bev breathes. 

“Of course I am,” says Eddie. “Why would I joke about this? I’m not some Hollywood sleazebag. It’s my fault you got fired.”

“I did throw the pie,” Bev says.

“Yeah, but I was the target,” Eddie says. “Listen, I’m not giving you a job here. You’d still have to do the work auditioning yourself. But do you want a shot at it or not?” 

Bev smiles, pulling nervously at her hands. “I want a shot, alright,” she says. “Lead the way, Eddie.” 

* * *

The talking picture’s a disaster already. Eddie can tell it’s going badly, between the technical difficulties and Myra’s constant complaining and his own snappishness. He misses stunt work, the lurch of adrenaline in his chest and the buzz in his head, half-drunk on the rush of doing something dangerous, Richie biting his thumb nervously when he stole a glance back to the sidelines before waving and pretending not to be. _Off the cliff, Kaspbrak. Into the burning shed, Kaspbrak. Crash the ‘plane, Kaspbrak._ Sir, yes sir. 

“Eddie,” Stan says. “Focus. Let’s run that one again, okay?” 

“Who wrote this dialogue, anyway?” Eddie says. 

“Bill,” says Stan. “Denbrough. He’s new.” 

“You can say that again,” Eddie says. 

“Then try it improvised, Eddie, I don’t care,” Stan says, losing patience.

“You’re thinking about _her_ , aren’t you, Eddie?” Myra interrupts haughtily. 

Eddie frowns. “Who the hell are you talking about, Myra?” he asks. 

“Please,” she hisses. “I know you’ve been spending all your time with that Beverly Marsh. I’ve seen her on the lot. I don’t know how anyone’s working with someone as unprofessional as she is.” 

It’s true that they’ve all been spending time together in the studio. More often than not, Eddie finds Richie and Bev tucked together over a piano in one of the practice rooms, or cooking up mischief by one of the snack tables. _Edster! Our Bev can sing like a canary, did you know that?_ Our _Bev_ , he’d said. Exactly like that, like - they were in on something together. It had made Eddie’s stomach twist, but he didn’t know why. And it was true, actually. Their duo had almost become a trio. 

Eddie knows what Myra’s insinuating, but he’s not lying. And it’s been bothering him for weeks, this thing he’s trying to turn over in his mind. Bev isn’t Myra. Nowhere near. Myra is easy to hate, with her assumptions and power plays, her selfishness and her claim to his person. But Bev is funny, and bright, and interesting. She’s beautiful too, something that Eddie only realized belatedly. Objectively, pale skin and red hair, full lips and a cleft in her chin and a dusting of freckles she tries to cover over with makeup. 

Eddie should be in love with her. He _likes_ her, but he should be enchanted with her, or have something flutter in his stomach when he looks at her, at the very least. But he doesn’t. He’s not. 

“I’m not thinking about Bev,” Eddie says. And it’s God’s honest truth. Really, if anything - if anything, he’s thinking about - 

“Okay, let’s go again. Myra,” Stan sighs. “Please remember that your microphone is -”

“In the bush! I know it’s in the bush!” she whines. “But I can’t make love to a bush!” 

“Well,” Stan says patiently. “You didn’t want it sewed onto your costume -” 

“Of course I didn’t!” Myra sniffles. “It was tacky!” 

Eddie wants to scream. He might, a little, in the back of his throat. His eyes automatically dart over to the righthand side of the set, just past the taped lines on the studio floor, and he’s hit with a wave of something sour that sticks around right behind his ribs, like he’s crossed his arms, leaned back for a trust fall, and bruised his tailbone hitting the ground. They haven’t moved the piano, yet. It’s empty in a way that makes something tighten in Eddie’s throat. He blinks. 

_Oh_ , he thinks. _I miss Richie. Of course I do_. 

It’s not just the stunt work. It’s Richie running up to him after, grasping his forearms with eyes shining behind his glasses. Richie at the piano with his big hands and big smile. Richie rolling his eyes between takes. It was like a magnet. Eddie’s neck prickled, and he glanced over, and there was Richie, smiling at him softly from that short distance. Eddie’d heard once that in the Renaissance, or in Medieval times, or something, they used to think that looking at someone looking back at you was like touching them. Eddie thinks of Richie’s big hand on his shoulder, or on his back, and he thinks he understands what they were talking about. 

Eddie realizes that this is the first time Richie hasn’t watched him work in a decade. And he should be - he should be happy for him. They’re adults. Eddie can’t keep expecting Richie to wait around for him forever, to be content with being his shadow. But he can’t stop the ache that’s crawling its way up his throat right now at being struck with the sudden absence of him. He feels almost sick with it. He doesn’t understand what he’s feeling, but it’s roiling under his skin all over his body. 

“Roll ‘em!” Stan shouts. But Eddie doesn’t have to worry about putting in another distracted performance or another bad take, because that’s when Mike trips over the mic cord, knocks the bush into Myra, and tips her backwards over the bench she’s sitting on. 

It’s hysterical. But Eddie can’t enjoy it with the bitter thing twisting in his chest. He keeps searching out Richie’s gaze for that shared laughter, the unspoken language that passes between them like a current, every time. It’s instinct. It feels like he’s missing a limb. _I can’t believe Richie missed this_ , he thinks. _I have to find him. I have to tell him about it_. 

So the second they break for lunch, Eddie does. 

* * *

Richie’s composing in one of the practice rooms, and the anxious thing in Eddie’s chest lies down and curls up at the sight of him. He hasn’t noticed Eddie yet; he’s frowning at one of the papers he’s got spread all over the piano, his tongue darting out to lick the tip of his pen. He scribbles something down, slides it behind his ear, and splays his long fingers across the keys. _Just use a pencil, dummy_ , Eddie thinks, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. He doesn’t say anything, though. Not yet. He’s not done looking at him. 

His hair’s a mess, and so is his five o’clock shadow. He’s in his vest and shirtsleeves, and Eddie can see the muscles in his forearms tense as he plays. He begins humming softly in a way that he says is tuneless but that Eddie has always found soothing. The chords he presses into, curving his shoulders, are soft, almost delicate. It sounds like he’s playing a love song. 

Eddie still misses him, somehow, even as he’s looking at him. How is that possible? How can you miss somebody who’s right in front of you? How can you miss somebody from ten feet away? 

“ _You are my lucky star_ ,” Richie sings softly, and Eddie hears the blood rush in his ears, feels his own heart stutter. “ _I watched you from afar. Two lovely eyes at me they were gleaming, beaming, I was starstruck…_ ” 

It _is_ a love song, fragile and lilting. It’s a love song, and Eddie feels like the floor’s dropped out from under him, like he’s falling down an endless hole, right through the center of the earth. 

“Oh,” Eddie says out loud, and Richie’s magnet gaze snaps up to his again in a way Eddie swears he can feel like a touch, and his eyes widen, and his cheeks start to turn a little red, and Eddie’s in love with him. 

“Eddie,” Richie says with a nervous laugh, voice tight. “How long have you been there?” 

Eddie knows he needs to reply, but he’s frozen in place, bolted down to the floor. He’s in _love_ with him. He loves Richie in the way he’s supposed to love Bev, or Myra, or any of the other women he’s met, in that _drive you crazy, crawl out of your own skin_ kind of way. In that _I want to see you all the time and talk to you about nothing_ kind of way. In that _I want to keep building my whole life around you_ kind of way. In that _just the two of us, honey, and to hell with everyone else_ kind of way. 

“I missed you,” Eddie says, and it’s not what he wanted to say, but it’s all he can manage right now. His tongue feels like it’s sticking to the roof of his mouth. Richie’s face goes a little confused at that, but then it turns pleased and fond, soft around the edges. Eddie loves that look. Holy shit, he _loves_ that look. 

“We saw each other yesterday,” Richie says. It’s true. He’d sauntered into Eddie’s elocution lesson for no reason at all. They’d ended up putting a lampshade on his instructor’s head. “Separation anxiety, Edster?” 

“Something like that,” he says, hands in his pockets. “On set, I mean. When something funny happens I don’t have anyone to look at, anymore.” 

“Oh,” Richie says. He’s smiling. “Hm.” 

“Hm,” Eddie hums back. The crawling feeling is back, pressing itself up underneath his skin. He wants to be close to him, he realizes, so he crosses the distance between them. 

“Shove over,” he says. “Let me see.” 

“Bossy,” Richie says, making room for Eddie on the piano bench. Eddie’s aware of every point of contact where their legs touch, where Richie’s broad shoulder knocks into his. His _shoulders_. Eddie feels like he’s gone off the deep end. 

Richie tries to gather up the papers he’s got strewn everywhere, but Eddie catches a lot of crossed out lines, half-finished guesses. _how could i help but realize my lucky star was shining right there before my very eyes - ? does it need intro at all?_ And on the same page: _you’ve opened heaven’s portal (???) here on earth for this poor mortal - too many beats? too intense??_ But he’s got the melody scratched out in his spider-messy handwriting, notes slapped onto the staves. 

Richie scratches the back of his head, unslicking his untidy hair even more, and Eddie’s almost swept away by another wave of affection. _How did I not know?_ Eddie thinks, desperately. _This whole time, how did I not know?_

“It’s not finished,” he says. 

“I can see that,” says Eddie. “Go on, play me what you’ve got. I liked it.”

“Yeah?” Richie asks. Eddie nods. “Alright. But you know I can’t sing like you can.” 

“You’ve got a nice voice, Richie,” Eddie says. _Je-_ sus. 

“Oh. Thanks, Eds.” He clears his throat. “I, uh, I’m worried the melody’s too flat? Or, uh -” 

“Rich,” Eddie says. 

“Okay,” he says, looking at the keys. He plays it again, and starts singing. Eddie lets it fill his chest up like water running in a warm bath. 

_It’s not flat_ , Eddie realizes. _It’s just incomplete. It’s missing the harmony._

“Again,” Eddie says. Richie gets a little looser beside him, and Eddie reaches for the higher notes of the melody and sings, too. When they both sing _two lovely eyes at me they were gleaming,_ Eddie reaches for the keys and plays a little riff, and Richie shoots a delighted, sideways look at him, a look that catches. _I - was - star - struck_ , they sing, together, and Eddie can hear the laugh in his own voice, but it sounds whole. It sounds perfect. 

“What about the second verse?” Eddie says, still holding Richie’s gaze. “You aren’t just gonna repeat that first bit?” 

“No, I feel like it needs something else,” says Richie, quieter than Eddie thinks he’s been in his entire life. “A variation on the theme.” 

Eddie feels his entire heart leap into his throat. He feels reckless, like jumping off a cliff. Like running into a burning shed. Like crashing an aeroplane. 

“How about…” Eddie looks back to the sheet music and starts to sing. “ _You… are my lucky charm_?” 

“Oh,” he hears Richie breathe beside him. He feels that familiar tug, and when he turns his head to look, Richie’s gazing at him with such a beam of concentrated affection he almost wants to shrink back from it.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Yeah, I think that’d fit just perfect.” 

“Good,” Eddie says. He watches as Richie’s eyes flick, just for a second, down to his mouth, before settling themselves on his eyes again. 

“So,” Richie says, softly. “So, what about -” 

There’s a knock at the door that’s enough to startle them apart. Eddie stands up. Ben’s in the doorway, looking apologetic. 

“Hey, Eddie,” he says. “Hey, Richie.” 

“Hey, Ben,” they say. It sounds like more of a croak for Eddie. He feels like he’s just woken up from a nap on the beach, hot and lightheaded and a little bit confused. 

“Sorry to be a nag, but they’re looking for you back on set, Eddie.” 

“Great,” Eddie says, flatly. “Just fantastic.” 

Ben cracks a smile. “Was Eddie telling you what happened before lunch, Rich?” 

“No?” Richie says, with all his usual mirth. “Mr. Spaghetti Man! How could you withhold a piece of juicy gossip from me!” 

“It’s just Myra,” says Eddie, dismissively. “Same as ever.” 

“Mike accidentally knocked her back off the bench,” Ben says. “It took me the whole break to calm her down, so we’ve gotta carpe this diem, I’d say.” 

“Alright,” Eddie says, crossing the room to where Ben’s waiting to take him back to set. He turns in the doorway, fighting back a smile. “See ya, Rich.” 

Richie’s got the soft smile back on again, the one that Eddie thinks might be reserved just for him. He hopes it is, anyway. “See ya, Eddie,” he says. 

Eddie looks at him as long as he can. He memorizes the way he looks, right in this moment, until the door swings shut. 

* * *

The screening of the film’s a disaster, in a way that Richie would find eye-wateringly hilarious if it didn’t make Eddie’s brow pinch with worry, make him chew the inside of his cheek. Richie’s always watching Eddie, but lately, he’s felt like Eddie’s been watching him back. Not in the usual way of fond glances and winks across rooms. In a way that makes his skin prickle. He’s terrified he’s imagining it, but he - he really hopes, against hope, that he isn’t. 

Richie and Bev invite themselves over to Eddie’s, after. It’s past one in the morning. Richie makes everyone coffee anyway, slides a mug across the kitchen table to Bev, first, then Eddie. 

“It could’ve been worse,” Bev’s saying. Eddie stops rubbing his forehead and flicks his big dark eyes to her in disbelief, mouth screwing into a scowl. 

“It could’ve been - Richie, could it have been worse?” 

“I mean, always, Eddie, baby,” he says. “But, uh, I won’t bullshit ya. It was pretty dire.” 

Eddie motions to Richie like _thank you_. “I think I just - listen, I fell into this career in the first place, and I had a good run, but it’s the end of a fuckin’ era, okay? Talkies are a whole different ball game.” 

“No,” says Bev, frowning back. “We’ve just gotta fix it.” 

“I like Bev’s moxie,” says Richie. “Come on, let’s brainstorm.” He slides his hand into Eddie’s, and Bev grabs the other. They pull him to his feet. 

“Why do we have to stand to brainstorm?” 

“That’s what they always do in the movies, they pace around. Like so.” Richie demonstrates his best Sherlock Holmes, miming a pipe and everything. He swivels to see Eddie’s cracked a smile, so he dials it up another notch. “You gotta stay loose, remember, Eds?” He does a tap shuffle with his dress shoes, a shoddy ball change that turns into an over-the-top shimmy. He does a little clap, throws his arms out. 

“Eh?” 

Bev applauds. “Y’know, that was pretty good, Rich!” 

He bows down to the floor, melodramatically. “Thank you, Ms. Marsh. Mr. Kaspbrak? Your review?” 

But Eddie’s just staring at him now, frozen to the spot, mouth open in a perfect little “o” that Richie wants to kiss. 

“What?” 

“Richie, that’s it,” he says, looking at Richie like - like he’s hung the moon, maybe. Like he’s saved the day. _Keep it up, Eds_ , Richie wants to say. _Keep looking at me like that a little bit longer. That’s the stuff._

“What’s it, Eddie?” Bev asks. “Come on, spit it out!” 

“This is gonna sound crazy, because I know we’ve only got six weeks for reshoots, but what if - what if we turn this thing into a musical?” 

Richie feels a smile tugging at his lips. “That does sound crazy. I think I love it.” 

“Yeah?” Eddie grins. 

“Yeah,” Richie says, grinning right back. 

“We could use the songs you’ve been composing,” Eddie says, all in a rush. His cheeks go pink. He looks so handsome like this, eyes bright, tie a little loose, one single lock of hair falling out of its careful placement in a curl on his forehead. “You could, uh. You could put in ‘Lucky Star’.” 

“What’s ‘Lucky Star’?” Bev asks, glancing between the two of them with a furrow in her brow like she’s trying to work something out. Richie wonders if it’d be okay if she did. _It’s a love song_ , he thinks. _It’s sweet and it’s simple and it can’t possibly mine the depths of this thing I’m feeling, but it’s a start. I’ve gotta put all this love somewhere. It’s coming out my eyeballs._

“A song Richie wrote,” Eddie says. 

“No, Eddie helped,” Richie says. He swallows. “I couldn’t crack it until he came by.” 

“Is that right?” Eddie asks lightly, and there’s something in his face, Richie _swears_ there is. 

“Well, everyone’s going crazy over _The Jazz Singer_ ,” Bev points out. “People love musicals. And Eddie, Richie won’t stop talking about how beautiful your singing voice is.” 

“Really?” Eddie asks. 

Richie blushes. “I’m not sure that’s what I said, exactly.” 

The smile spreading over Bev’s face is a little wicked. “That’s right, I think you said, _you’ve gotta see Kaspbrak at the mic, Bev. It’s like everyone else vanishes. He’s got a voice like an angel_.” 

“The musical,” Richie says, quickly, while Eddie’s eyes track him in a way he absolutely can’t decode. “This is gonna work.” 

“Of course it will!” Bev says. 

“We’re gonna do it. We’re gonna go to Mike and Stan in the morning,” Eddie says, with that determined set to his jaw. 

“Hot dog!” Richie shouts. 

“Alleluia!” Bev echoes. 

“It’s your lucky day, Eds,” Richie says, hopping up on the countertop and pulling down the calendar. “Mark it down. March 23rd.” 

“Well, actually,” says Eddie, slotting himself between Richie’s legs. He splays one warm hand across Richie’s thigh, leans in close, and plucks the day off the calendar with his other hand. Richie thinks that maybe he could die now, and die happy. “Our lucky day is March 24th. It’s one-thirty, it’s morning.” 

Bev pulls open the curtains with a flourish, revealing the downpour outside. “And what a lovely morning!” 

They end up sprawled on the floor in the living room, hashing out the plot points of the new film. 

“We’re gonna have to give you a writing credit here, Bevvy, you’re brilliant,” Richie says. 

“Well, you’re gonna need another song for the girl, where -” she stops dead, a look of disappointment starting to creep over her face. “Oh. Oh no.” 

“What, what is it?” Richie asks. Eddie raises his eyebrows. 

“You can’t make this a musical.” 

“Why not?” Richie asks, at the same time Eddie lets loose a string of curses. 

“Myra,” Eddie spits. 

“Myra,” Richie and Bev echo. 

“She can’t sing,” Eddie says. 

“She can’t dance or act, either,” says Richie. “A triple threat.” 

“I dunno, Rich,” Bev says. “She was pretty good when the sound went haywire tonight.”

Richie lets a laugh loose, thinks back to the screening tonight when the villain’s dialogue had been coming out of Myra’s mouth. Then - 

Then, he thinks about turning the radio up high at his house and hamming it up for Eddie when they were teenagers, hand over his heart, mouthing along to the corniest love songs and pretending the woman’s voice was his. 

“Oh,” Richie says. “Oh, I’m having an idea.”

“Oh no,” says Eddie, without any heat. 

“Shh, shh, Bev, get behind me, here.” She shoots Eddie a bemused look, and he just shrugs. “Now sing any song you like. A popular one, one that I know.” 

“Alright?” she says, and starts singing. Richie mouths the words. 

“Hold on,” Eddie laughs. “Richie, what?” 

Richie kneels back down in front of Eddie, sitting on his heels. “Bev’s got a set of pipes that’d make anyone jealous, right?” 

“Right,” Eddie says. 

“Bev can sing for Myra,” Richie says, excitedly. “She can record the audio on her own and they can put it over Myra’s for the musical.” 

“Oh my God,” Eddie says. He laughs again, covering his face with his hands for a second. “Let’s do it, it’s brilliant. You’re a genius.” 

“I think it could work!” Richie says. 

“Of course it’s gonna work,” Eddie grins. “Richie, I could kiss you.” 

Richie swallows, hard. He feels like all the air’s been sucked out of the room, like there’s none of it left for him to breathe. His collar feels too tight. 

“Uh,” he says. Eddie’s looking at him like a rabbit, big eyes wide and locked on his. 

“You know,” says Bev, from where she’s still standing behind them. They both swivel to look at her. She raises her eyebrows smilingly at both of them. “It’s past my bedtime, I think I should head home.” 

“Yeah, of course,” Eddie says, scrambling up. “Let me call you a car, it’s a nightmare out there.” 

“Thanks, Eddie,” she grins. They walk her to the door. Richie shoves his hands into his pockets. “Goodnight, boys,” she sing-songs. 

“Goodnight, Bev,” they chorus back, and the door clicks shut behind her. Richie keeps his hands in his pockets. He bites the inside of his cheek. 

“I should head home, too,” he breathes.

“To your shoebox,” Eddie says. 

“Yeah,” Richie laughs, but it’s a little reedy. “Yeah, to my shoebox, I pay good money to touch both walls with my hands.” 

“Your arms are long enough,” Eddie says. 

“Har, har,” says Richie. There’s a moment of silence between them. Richie feels like his heart’s gonna hammer out of his chest, but if he can’t be a little bit brave right here, just between the two of them, when can he ever be? 

“So,” he says, putting on the lilt of a joke, watching Eddie carefully. “Am I getting that goodnight kiss, or were you bullshitting me?” 

Eddie smiles slow at him, like a Cheshire cat. He slides his fingers behind Richie’s tie, brushing his chest, and tugs on it gently. Richie holds his breath. He ducks his head, mesmerized, terrified, and Eddie presses a kiss right to the square of his jaw, below his ear. 

Eddie lets go. Richie tries to remember how to breathe, but he can’t quite manage it right now. 

“Goodnight, Rich,” he says. 

“I, uh,” Richie says, backing toward the door. He trips over the step he’s forgotten was there, righting himself as quick as he can and pushing his glasses back up. Eddie’s grinning at him. “Good morning, actually. I think you said.” 

“Good morning, then,” Eddie says, as easy as anything. He opens the door for him, and the rhythmic hush of the rain fills the foyer. “See you tomorrow.” 

“See you today, you mean.” 

“Oh my God, get out of here, already,” he says. “The car’s right there.” 

Richie puts on his hat and opens his umbrella out on the porch, stealing a look back at Eddie, bathed in warm light, leaning against the doorframe. Eddie, who kissed the stubble on his cheek. Eddie, who knows that that means something, who knows what Richie is, who loves Richie, who might - who might even love him the way Richie loves him. He hadn’t even though it was possible. He’s still not sure he isn’t dreaming. 

“Y’know what?” Richie says. “I think I’m gonna walk.” 

“Richie!” Eddie shouts. “It is almost three in the morning! It’s pouring rain, you are not walking back to your apartment right now!” 

“What rain?” Richie calls back, grinning. 

“Richard Tozier! Take the goddamn car I am offering you!”

“Okay, okay!” he says. “I’m taking the car!” 

Eddie gives him a look and shuts the door. The spot on Richie’s cheek tingles. Richie turns, waves the car along, slings the umbrella over his shoulder, and whistles a new song all the way home, the rain spotting his glasses until he can’t see anything but light, falling from the gutter in a waterfall, pouring from the street lights, refracted into infinity. 

* * *

Mike loves the idea, and Stan sighs when he hears all the work they’re gonna have to do in six weeks to pull this off, but Eddie can tell that he’s excited, too. Richie’s writing even more songs, and every time Eddie catches sight of him he seems a little more ready to tear his hair out, but he’s back on set, now, chewing on his pen and watching from the sidelines for musical direction. The sight of him there again makes something flutter in Eddie’s chest. 

“Alright!” Stan’s yelling again. “Can we do ‘Lucky Star’ again? From the top?”

“Ready to go,” Eddie says.

“Me too,” Myra says, shrilly. She still doesn’t know about the doubling, and they’re all keeping it that way for as long as possible. 

“Myra, are you sure you have the lyrics?” Stan asks. 

Myra shrugs. “If I get them wrong does it really matter?” 

Eddie makes eye contact with Richie, quick, stabilizing. And then they’re rolling again. 

Eddie swears he means to sing the whole song to Myra. But the way they’re angled means that all he has to do is flick his eyes up, past her face, and there’s Richie, watching him. He gets through the first verse, but the second - the second is Richie’s, and Richie’s alone. 

“ _You are my lucky charm_ ,” he sings. Richie puts his thumb in his mouth, biting down on it. “ _I’m lucky in your arms. You’ve opened heaven’s portal here on earth for this poor mortal…_ ” 

“Cut!” Stan shouts. “Eddie, where’s your head at today? You have to sing to Myra, not to the middle distance.” 

“Sorry,” Eddie says. He’s still looking at Richie. He feels like he’s being fucking obvious, even though he hasn’t said a word. He knows he needs to focus. He watches Richie duck his head in delight, grinning down at his hands, and he finally tears his gaze away again. He looks at Stan, trying not to smile. “From the top?” 

“Yes, Eddie,” Stan sighs. “From the top.” 

* * *

Richie sees Eddie slip into the recording room, wave silently at Bev at the mic, who gives him a wink. _Is he up there?_ He mouths, pointing to Richie in the sound booth. Richie knows he can’t see into the booth from out there, so he leans forward, presses the “talk” button, and puts on his best ghost-of-Hamlet’s-father voice. 

“Edward Kaspbrak,” he booms. “You dare disturb our process?” 

“What process!” Eddie shouts up. 

Richie grins. “Come on up,” he says through the mic. 

Eddie lets himself in with a _hello_ sort of smile, sitting in the chair beside Richie's. “Where’s Stan?” he asks. 

“He went home already, it’s his wife’s birthday.” 

“Shit,” Eddie says. “That’s right, did you get Patty anything?” 

“Figured I’d leave that to her husband,” Richie says. “I wanted to get a few more takes. This song is…” 

It’s a fucking confessional is what it is. He wrote it for Eddie. He’s written all his songs for Eddie, but not for Eddie to _hear_. His leg’s bouncing doubletime, and he tries to calm his nerves with an uneasy breath, in and out. 

“It needs to be perfect,” is what he says instead. He presses down on the talk button. “Do you wanna do one more dub, Bev, before you take a break?” 

“Can do, boss,” she says into the mic, giving him a thumbs up. 

“You’re an angel,” Richie says.

“That’s what they tell me,” Bev grins. 

She starts to sing, and Richie keeps his eyes on her, and absolutely refuses to look at the man he’s been in love with for as long as he’s known what love is. 

The first verse is vague enough to be meaningless, someone watching a man and a woman kiss on the silver screen. The second is not. 

“ _They met as you and I, and they were only friends_ ,” Bev sings. “ _But before the story ends... He’ll kiss her with a sigh, would you, would you? And if the girl were I, would you, would you?_ ” 

Richie swallows. He hazards a glance over at Eddie, who’s staring out at Bev, leaning forward against the soundboard with his hand over his mouth. 

“ _And would you dare to say, let’s do the same as they?_ ” Bev sings. Eddie’s eyes are shining. “ _I would, would you?_ ” 

Richie leans forward to press the button. “Cut,” he says. Eddie finally looks over at him. Richie’s never been more nervous in his entire life. He feels like he’s going to hurl, or maybe have a heart attack. Maybe both at the same time, if he’s lucky. 

“You wrote that song?” Eddie asks softly. It comes out a little shaky. 

“Yeah,” says Richie. 

“The last lines?” Eddie says. 

“ _And would you dare to say, let’s do the same as they?_ ” Richie says quietly. “ _I - I would. Would you?_ ” 

Eddie’s jaw works, just for a second. His eyes snap back to Richie’s, dark and determined. “Hey, Richie?” 

“Yeah, Eds?” 

“Does this door lock?” 

A spike of anticipation pushes its way right through Richie’s gut. Eddie doesn’t wait for an answer, which is good, because Richie can’t give one. He can feel his pulse pounding in his wrists, in his neck. Eddie gets out of his chair. He reaches over to the door, keeping his eyes on Richie, and slides the lock into place with one quick turn of his wrist. 

He crosses the booth to Richie’s chair, sits directly in his lap, and slides a palm over his cheek, rubbing his thumb over the spot where he kissed him that night. He touches that same thumb to the bow of Richie’s lip, just once, and Richie shudders. 

“Eddie -” he whispers. 

“Yeah, Richie,” Eddie says. “I would.” 

Richie hasn’t given much thought to the way that Eddie would kiss, has tried very hard not to think about the impossibility of Eddie’s lips against his. But they’re warm when he ducks down and presses them to Richie’s, soft and perfect. Richie’s brain feels like it’s melting, sliding right out his ears. There’s a wet little sound when their lips separate, and Eddie presses in again, and again, and Richie finally remembers that he’s supposed to kiss back. 

He snakes his arms around the back of Eddie’s waistcoat, pulls him in tighter, and Eddie shifts, letting out an annoyed hum against Richie’s lips that’s so profoundly _him_ that Richie’s hit with a tidal wave of love that wipes out every other thought he’s ever had. He’s kissing Eddie. Eddie’s cradling his face in his hands, and starting to breathe heavy in his lap, and Richie tilts his head and presses his tongue into the seam of Eddie’s lips until he opens the heat of his mouth to him. 

They’re not kissing like they do in the pictures anymore, no closed, chaste press of lips. It’s all heat and tongues, push and pull, licking at teeth. Richie feels like he’s been struck by lightning. They groan into each other’s mouths, and Eddie’s teeth find Richie’s bottom lip and pull, and Richie gasps into it. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” Richie breathes. 

“Shh, talk later,” Eddie says, right into his mouth, pulling the hair at the nape of his neck until Richie lets out a sound he didn’t know he was capable of making.

“Jesus,” Richie says. 

“Even this can’t shut you up?” Eddie pants, pressing kisses to Richie’s nose, his cheeks. Richie lets out a quiet, startled laugh. He can’t believe his luck. He never thought he’d have this, even one furtive kiss in the dark, even a single brush of lips. Eddie bites at Richie’s earlobe, and Richie hisses. 

“Nothing can, baby,” he says. “You love it.” 

Eddie pulls back just far enough to look at him, and Richie wants to reach out and trace the line of his lips, so he does. “Yeah,” Eddie says, searching Richie’s face, smiling dazedly. “Yeah, I do.”

“Richie,” Bev’s voice calls from below. Eddie nearly falls out of the chair. 

“Oh my God,” he says. 

“Eddie,” Richie laughs, squeezing his hips. “Eddie, did you forget where we were?” 

Eddie starts to laugh, covering his face with his hands. “Rich, I forgot what _planet_ we were on,” he says. He gets off Richie’s lap, and Richie aches at his absence already, but he straightens out his clothes, runs a hand over his hair. Richie reaches out and presses the talk button.

“Yeah, Bev, I think we got it,” he says. 

“How do I look, Rich?” Eddie asks. Richie lets his eyes rake over him, flushed cheeks and red lips and dark eyes. 

“Debauched,” Richie grins. 

“No!” Eddie groans. 

“No, Richie,” Bev says. He glances up. Bev’s pointing toward the door, to someone Richie can’t see from this angle. “Uh. Myra’s here.” 

“Oh, shit,” he says. 

* * *

As it turns out, underestimating Myra was their collective mistake. Myra is petty, and demanding, and vain, with a mean streak a mile wide, but she’s not stupid. Not even close. 

She leaks news of her beautiful singing voice to the press, threatens to sue Mike and the studio if they don’t remove Bev’s credit in the film. Bev’s got a five year contract with Monumental, now, but Eddie will be damned if he lets her get fucked over like this. He’s so mad he could spit.

Well. He would be, usually. Richie helps.

They’ve spent another night brainstorming Bev’s career with her in Eddie’s living room. The premiere’s tomorrow, and they’ve got a semblance of a plan, but it relies heavily on Myra’s own foolhardiness. Knowing Myra, though, Eddie thinks it’s a sure thing. 

As soon as Bev makes her excuses for the night, Richie’s tugging Eddie down onto the couch with a lazy grin, and Eddie’s going willingly, kissing him slow and deliberate. Kissing’s never been like this for him. He’s never understood the point of it, but he’s also never gone this far with anyone before, either. When Richie had slid his tongue against Eddie’s in the sound booth, making a choked out sort of sigh, Eddie had felt... Eddie hadn’t _known_ what he’d felt, except that he had felt a whole lot of it, all of a sudden, everywhere in his body. It had felt like being jolted awake by a fire alarm, like jumping into a swimming pool with all your clothes on. 

This kiss isn’t like that. It’s like sinking into a warm bath after a long day. 

Richie tugs at Eddie’s tie, undoing the knot with his long fingers and dropping it to the ground. He undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, leaning in and pressing kisses to Eddie’s neck. Eddie squirms. It’s good. It’s so good he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Richie’s rubbing circles on his back with his fingers, and he sighs.

“Your hands are unfair, Richie,” he says. “Fuckin’ piano player.” 

Richie hums into his neck. It tickles, a little. 

“I watched you all these years, and I felt so warm, knowing you were right there, watching me back,” Eddie says. “I didn’t know, Richie, I had no fucking idea. I don’t know how I didn’t know.” 

Richie plants one more kiss and pulls back, looking at Eddie. Eddie wants to pull his hair, bite his shoulders. Eddie wants to love him forever, if he’ll let him. 

“When did you figure it out?” Richie asks, shyly. It makes Eddie laugh, because Richie’s never been shy in his life. But he rests his head against the throw pillow, looking at Richie, noses almost touching. 

“I found you in the practice room and I just knew,” Eddie says. 

“I always knew I’d charm you with my soulful tunes,” Richie says, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Shut up,” Eddie says. He pauses. “You wrote it for me, didn’t you?” 

Richie bursts into hysterical laughter, resting his forehead on Eddie’s chest. He wraps his arms around him, and Eddie lets his hands tangle into Richie’s hair, stroking his scalp, because he can. He’s getting hair oil on his hand, and it’ll be a bitch wiping it off later, but he can’t find it in himself to care too much, not with Richie’s solid weight on top of him like the heaviest quilt. 

“Thanks for that,” Eddie says. “Real boost to a man’s ego.” 

Richie turns his head to look up at Eddie, and Eddie feels like he’s been skewered into place by it. Magnet gaze, pulling stronger than ever. 

“Eddie,” he says. “I write all of ‘em for you. Every single one.” 

It’s so romantic that Eddie feels like he can’t breathe. _All this time, Richie? All this time?_ He doesn’t know how to respond, so he just looks at Richie, eyes misting, and says, “even the Wheaties jingle?” 

It sets Richie off into a fit of giggles again, and Eddie’s laughing too. 

“Edster,” Richie says. “You aren’t allowed to be funnier than me, it’s in the bylaws.” 

“What bylaws?” 

“I don’t know, I lost ‘em a long time ago,” Richie says. “You know I’m no good with paperwork.” 

“I do know, I’m the one who keeps track of your Monumental contract.” 

Richie’s still sniggering. “Yeah, Eds, even the Wheaties jingle. It’s for squares. Keeps you regular. Couldn’t help thinking of you with all the love in my heart.” 

“Love, eh?” Eddie says.

Richie blinks. Eddie can tell by the press of his lips he’s about to deflect, so he reaches up and presses two fingers under his chin. _Look at me_ , he thinks. And, like always, Richie does. 

“A whole mess of love, Eddie,” he says. “It’s embarrassing, frankly. I - I’ve been so in love with you for so long I thought it was gonna eat me alive. I’ve been trying to keep a lid on it but it just kept bubbling over.” 

“Richie,” Eddie breathes. 

“I never thought…” His eyes are getting a little teary, so Eddie holds him closer. “I thought I’d keep all this love inside me until I died. I didn’t think I’d be allowed to have anyone. Especially not you.” 

“You’ve got me,” Eddie says. “In any way you want me.” 

“ _Any_ way?” Richie says, raising his eyebrows in a joke, but it comes out honest. 

“Yeah,” says Eddie. “I’m yours, Rich.” 

“Oh,” Richie breathes. 

“I love you too. I think I might’ve loved you my whole life,” Eddie says, quiet. “I just didn’t know that was the name for it.” 

And Richie’s kissing him again, harder this time but just as sweet. “I’m sorry you waited so long,” Eddie whispers into the space between them. 

“It’s okay,” Richie says back. Another kiss, and another. “It’s okay. I’m not waiting anymore.” 

“You should stay,” Eddie says. 

Richie raises his eyebrows. “Tonight?” 

“Yes,” says Eddie. “And the night after that. And the next one. Every night.”

“Are you - Eddie, are you asking -”

“Yes,” Eddie says again. Richie’s smile is blinding. It coaxes one onto Eddie’s face, too, as usual. 

“People will talk,” Richie says. 

“They already do,” says Eddie. 

“Why, Mr. _Kaspbrak_ ,” Richie says. Eddie groans. “This is so _forward_ of you.” 

“Then get with the program, Mr. Tozier,” Eddie says. 

Richie does.

* * *

The musical’s a hit. The audience is spellbound by it, by Bev’s voice, by the singing and dancing. Eddie’s not sure he’s been prouder of anything in his life. When “I Would” plays, Eddie shifts his arm onto his armrest, casually, and Richie leans into his shoulder, brushing his pinkie finger against Eddie’s in the dark. 

When the crowd demands that Myra sing one of the songs live, Eddie watches the false modesty, the _oh, no, I could never_ , and he knows they’ve got her. They set up a mic behind the curtain onstage for Bev to sing into while Myra mouths the words. Bev gives them both a quick little wink, and Eddie grins back at her in anticipation. Bev starts singing for Myra. Richie and Eddie wander casually backstage to where the curtain’s pulley is rigged. Stan and Mike help them pull the rope. 

The crowd gasps. Myra doesn’t notice anything’s amiss until Richie slides his way behind the mic and starts singing in as low a register as he can manage. Eddie loves him. He’s gonna love him for the rest of their lives. 

Myra looks like she’s about to go on a killing spree, but Eddie feels giddy. He takes the microphone from Richie, puts on his most dazzling smile, and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, the voice you heard and loved tonight -” 

“- Monumental’s newest rising starlet -” Richie cuts in. 

“- Beverly Marsh! Bev, take a bow.”

She does, laughing with delight. The crowd loves her. Eddie knew they would. 

* * *

“Okay, Eds, where the hell are you taking me?” Richie asks. Eddie’s got him by the elbow, because it’s a neutral kind of touch, and he’s tugging him across the lot determinedly. “Finally had enough? Gonna dispose of the body?” 

Eddie just shuts him up with a look. He turns back ahead. “No,” he finally says, when he’s sure no one’s within earshot. “Not that body. I like it too much.” 

Richie blushes up to his ears. 

Eddie presses a button and leads him into an empty soundstage, cavernous and dark. It’s been halfway torn down, but Richie can see that they were filming something tropical here, some sort of flick with a scene in a beachside cabana bar. There are still little grains of sand crunching under Richie’s shoes. 

“Okay,” Eddie says. “They’re done in here for the day, so no one’s gonna bother us.” He flicks on one light, then another. “Plus, Bev’s agreed to stand guard.” 

“Bev,” Richie sighs. “What a guy.” 

Eddie flicks on the backdrop. It’s a sunset, painted in glowing pinks and purples, orange around the edges. Richie looks at him, puzzled.

“Don’t make this a thing, I - ugh,” he says.

“Eddie, are you _nervous_?” Richie laughs, reaching out and rubbing Eddie’s arms. “Why?”

“Okay, I thought - I wanted to do something nice for you, but now I feel like it’s stupid. We don’t do things like this, but I just thought -”

“Eddie,” Richie says, gently. There’s a balloon of love just filling right up in his chest. “Go ahead.” 

Eddie flicks on a machine and soft ocean noises echo across the stage. He guides Richie to sit, and Richie complies, trying desperately not to tease him. And then Eddie’s eyes soften, and he kneels down right in front of him and starts to sing “Lucky Star,” and Richie doesn’t have anything to tease him about at all. 

“ _You are my lucky charm_ ,” Eddie croons, and Richie lets out a disbelieving laugh that’s already wet at the edges. “ _I’m lucky in your arms. You’ve opened heaven’s portal here on earth for this poor mortal -_ ” 

“That line was so cheesy, I should have cut it -” Richie tries, but he’s crying, now, so it doesn’t come out right. 

“Shh, let me finish,” Eddie says. He rests his forearms on Richie’s legs, holding onto his waist with both hands. “ _You are my lucky star_.” 

Richie scrubs at his eyes behind his glasses, and when he looks back, Eddie’s smiling up at him. “You - you brought me here just so you could serenade me?” 

“I wanted to take you somewhere romantic,” Eddie says, sheepishly. “But I can’t take you out to the beach, or any of the other places I want to, so I - I thought I’d recreate it here.” 

It’s the most wonderful thing anyone’s ever done for him. Richie never thought he’d get to have anything like this - no great love, no sweeping romance. But Eddie’s right here in front of him, solid and brave and beautiful, and he loves him. He loves him _back_. 

“Richie,” Eddie laughs. “Please stop crying.” 

“I can’t,” Richie says, sniffing. “I can’t, I love you too much.” 

“I love you, too,” Eddie says. “I’m never gonna stop.” 

“Promise?” Richie asks, tugging him up. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. He wipes the tears off his cheeks and smiles against his lips. “Promise.” 

* * *

“Edward,” the interviewer is asking him, microphone at the ready. “In the past five years, you’ve made the pivot from silent star to musical darling. What was the motive behind that change?” 

“Well, Dora,” Eddie says. “I wouldn’t call it a _change._ I’ve just gone back to my roots. I started as a musician and a dancer. Acting came along later.” 

“And I’ve heard some rumors about your relationship with your co-star, the radiant Beverly Marsh,” the interviewer says. 

“Oh, we don’t want to get into our personal lives,” Bev says coyly. “But what a lovely compliment.” 

“So there aren’t any wedding bells on the horizon just yet?” she asks. 

“I guess we’ll have to see, Dora,” Richie chimes in. 

“You’re still living that bachelor’s life with your creative partner, your childhood friend, Richard Tozier?” 

Bev’s on Eddie’s arm, but Richie’s just on the other side of the interviewer, these days. They lock eyes over her head. Richie’s biting the inside of his cheek trying not to smile, and one of his eyebrows ticks up, quick. Eddie knows they’re both thinking of what they did yesterday afternoon in the sunroom, and last night in their bedroom, and again, this morning, at the kitchen table, and under it. 

“Well, Dora,” Eddie says, with an entirely straight face. It’s a competition, by this point. Eddie always wins. “You know, it’s helpful to have such easy access to my closest collaborator.” 

“That’s right,” Richie adds. “We like to take a hands-on approach to our process. I think that garners the best results.”

Eddie won’t laugh. He won’t glare, either, even though Richie’s beat him this round. Bev’s clutching his arm tightly in a way he knows means that she’s about to lose it, too, but luckily, they’re all very, very good at acting. 

“Well, it certainly shows!” the interviewer chirps. “You’re making movie history tonight in your greatest musical yet, _Singin’ in the Rain!_ Now get in there, you lovebirds. The film’s about to start!”

“Yes ma’am,” Eddie says. He flashes a final, pasted-on smile to the screaming crowd, turns and offers Bev his other arm, which she takes with a wink. The three of them walk into the theater together, and Eddie flicks his eyes to Richie’s. Richie’s smiling back at him, eyes so full of love that Eddie feels a little dizzy, and when he holds the door open for him, it feels like a hand on the small of his back, a breathless kiss on an empty soundstage.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [theparadigmshifts](https://theparadigmshifts.tumblr.com/) or on twitter @ [twomustards](https://twitter.com/twomustards/)
> 
> (lucky star: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xG5M47yljzs)


End file.
